


the storms of spring

by days4daisy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bath Sex, Crossover, Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Extra Treat, F/M, First Time, Loyalty, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-02 19:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21166466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: The stranger has watched Brienne for some time.





	the storms of spring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRaven/gifts).

> Happy Shipoween! :)

No one knows when or how the stranger arrived at Winterfell.

Some say he rode in with the Dragon Queen from the south. Yet he does not wear the colors of the Targaryen house, nor the distinct dress of the Dothraki. Even under gray skies his hair shines like gold.

The stranger has watched Brienne for some time.

Today he tracks her on the training field with Podrick with eyes blue as a summer sky. Yesterday he looked on as she tested young Arya. The day before, it was her alone sharpening her blade.

None know his name. They call him by that of his weapon, an axe known as Stormbreaker. It is a mighty cut of metal. Thick as a skull with an edge broad enough to carve a man in two.

“A mighty weapon, but cumbersome,” Brienne says, turning to face him.

Stormbreaker stands apart from the rest. He looks up at her hail.

“Cumbersome to ones not accustomed to its size,” Stormbreaker says. His deep voice carries levity, as if embarking on a verbal volley. It is a prospect he seems to find enjoyable. He is alone on this count.

Brienne has had her fill of gawking from warriors unaccustomed to her kind. Here, under the favor of Lady Sansa, Brienne thought the worst of those days behind her.

“Yet you’ve taken quite an interest in the parlay of swords of late.” Brienne waves permission to the field. “Podrick here will let you borrow his blade for a round if that is your desire.”

The faintest of smiles shows itself on his face. “That is not my desire, Ser Brienne,” he says.

Anger warms her at the insult, as it does every time. Too rash, she was always told. Too rash and too bold with emotion unbecoming of a lady. After all she’s seen, all she’s done and experienced, she should know better by now.

Her fist clenches around the hilt of Oathkeeper. “In that case, Stormbreaker,” Brienne says, “you are wasting my time and that of those who wish to train.”

She does not miss the looks exchanged between bystanders. Podrick's stare flits to her in surprise. Perhaps it seems unwise to dismiss a warrior who, in looks at least, appears worthy of their company.

But Brienne knows that looks alone do not decide the measure of a man. She has no time to spend on the ego of one who does not respect the siege to come. The days grow cold and short. The dead move ever closer.

It is a relief when Stormbreaker nods. “Apologies, my lady,” he says. He swings his axe over his shoulder, a quick motion for so heavy a weapon.

“Continue,” Brienne tells Podrick after the stranger’s departure. After a moment of stunned silence, he does so.

***

Day turns to night and their company retires indoors. Under the light of their lamps, the stranger watches her again.

He sits in a solitary corner of the dining hall, his gaze tracking her from across the room. In this casual setting, he does not carry his grand weapon, but his presence is no less impressive. In his corner, he looms like a distant mountain peak. Even in winter, he wears his sleeves short. His arms look carved from the same mighty steel as his axe.

Brienne still cannot place his origin. His blonde hair and blue eyes would recall the south if not for the foreign build of his axe.

He stares at her, and she is not the only one to notice. Casual looks turn between them. Smiles hide behind wine-filled cups.

Brienne pushes from her table with a screech of chair legs. She marches to the door, not even pausing as she mutters, “Follow me.” Stormbreaker does, his bootsteps long and slow behind her.

She waits until they are out of hearing range of the hall, in a place where torches flicker. The stranger’s face is cast in more darkness than light.

“What are you doing?” Brienne asks, spinning around.

Stormbreaker’s expression does not change from its polite distance. “What do you mean?”

“Who are you?” Brienne asks.

“Well,” a smile, “I am called-”

“Stormbreaker, yes, I know that,” Brienne interrupts. “Who are you really? What joy do you find in mocking me?”

The smile falls to curiosity. “Mocking you?”

“Yes, mocking me,” Brienne presses. “You stare constantly but refuse to speak unless spoken to. And when you do, it’s with slights. Calling me ‘Ser Brienne’ when you know exactly what I am.”

A deeper puzzlement creases his brow. “What you are?”

“We all know what’s coming,” Brienne tells him. “Out there, from beyond the wall. The last thing I need is to have my own preparation, along with my men’s, disrupted by your disregard for-”

“I don’t hold you in any measure of disregard,” Stormbreaker says. He is one of few to stand at her equal height. “You are a warrior of honor. I do not look upon those not worthy of it.”

He speaks like royalty. One who feels capable of determining another man’s worth, and who believes others also deem him so. His authority unquestioned even by those to whom he is known only by the name of his axe.

Brienne knows men like this, who believe their own worth more than those around them. She wonders, though, if she has known a man who trusted their own importance more than this one.

“Worthy or not, I don’t want your gaze,” Brienne says. “Hear me, Stormbreaker. I won’t tell you again.”

Worthy or not, wanted or not, his gaze follows her until she is out of his line of sight.

***

His eyes do not haunt her for a time. It is the news of the dead that grips her; they have broken through the wall and march south. Their party at Winterfell is all that remains between winter and the world of men.

She puts on a brave face before the coming siege. Among them are capable warriors, but also the weak and scared. Those who have never once picked up a blade. For them, she keeps her posture steady and sure. She trains them hard. She takes extra care in pointing out their mistakes. Mistakes lead to death, and death makes their enemy stronger.

At night, she squeezes her eyes shut and thinks of other times. Not better times, but safer ones for herself and those she fights for. Times when white walkers were a silly tale used to frighten children, nothing more.

It is on the eve of battle that the stranger comes to her. The sun hangs low behind a curtain of misty gray clouds. His eyes lose their blue in this light.

He crosses through sparring soldiers to meet her. His expression is stern. “It would be my honor to fight under your command, Ser Brienne,” Stormbreaker says. Then, he bows, knee bent to a mess of dirt and dying grass.

“Don’t call me that,” Brienne hisses. The sight of the stranger bent low is an oddity, and those around them stop to stare. “I’m not a knight and you know it. I will not tolerate-”

“Well, you should be,” Stormbreaker says. “A knight, I mean.” At his angle, she barely sees his mouth move.

“Where in the world are you from?” Brienne marvels. “Women can’t be knights. Everybody knows this. No one would stand for it.”

“I don’t care what others stand for,” Stormbreaker says. Still, he kneels to her. Still, he bends his head low.

“Stand up,” Brienne hisses. “This is no time for-”

“You are the most worthy in this company. I’ve chosen you, and I know I choose well. There is no one here whose command I trust more than yours.”

“Oh for god’s sake.” With an exasperated huff, Brienne forces fingers under his chin. “I said _stand up_.”

He does not, but he lifts his head. A snap of his chin upward at her physical command. His lips press, resolute. Brienne withdraws her hand like her fingers have been burned.

Without a hint of merriment, he looks at her. “If I am unworthy, tell me so,” Stormbreaker says.

Brienne considers.

After a minute, she nods. He nods in return.

This time, as he walks away, it is she who watches him.

***

At times, she sees him.

It is difficult to see at all as the siege drags into the darkest slate of night. As the enemy breaches the walls and those who survive fight to hold any corner that remains for the living. The air fills with the clang of swords and a roar unlike any Brienne has heard before. Not of beast or man but something beyond the world she knows. A void from which there is no return.

Strategy is long since abandoned. Brienne has her skill now, her raw strength, and the will to live. These are all she has, as blue flame rains from the sky and corpses of those she once knew rise with eyes like the grave.

At times, Brienne sees the mighty swing of the stranger’s axe. How it can cleave a white walker in two with a single stroke. She sees Stormbreaker swing and swing, tireless among the carnage. She finds strength in his, makes Oathkeeper work in tandem, for those she has sworn herself to depend on it. Wails of the dying echo between the castle walls. The mighty stones of the North crumble under the plunge of dead dragon claws. Brienne swings again and again, at dead face after dead face.

A voice cuts through the madness. “You’re wrong about them, father!” A roar mightier than the void.

Overhead, a clasp of thunder. Lightning pierces the night sky, and for a moment shadow turns to morning. Light falls upon the blood-soaked earth of Winterfell. The enemy before her stumbles, and she sees it through with her blade.

At times, Stormbreaker’s eyes seem to shine like the sun. A light so hot that it burns blue.

He smiles when she looks to him. “I stand with you,” Stormbreaker says. “No matter what comes. To your end, I’ll follow.”

“Take heart, Stormbreaker,” Brienne answers. “I'd like to live a while longer.”

***

Rain comes the next night, dousing the final flames of the pyres stacked high with winter’s fallen. Though the dead are gone, a chill still frosts the trampled earth of Winterfell. In the baths, though, steam rises from the pools. Slim half-oval windows allow a breath of cold from beyond.

The stranger lifts his head at the sound of her footsteps. She stops at the edge of his pool. “I thought I was alone,” she says. She folds arms over her chest, tightening her cloak over her shoulders.

Stormbreaker’s head tips against a damp shoulder. Droplets sit across his breast and fall down the arms he’s draped along the pool's edge. “Would you like to be alone?” he asks. Though the room is dark, she sees his nakedness under the water's surface.

Brienne shrugs from her cloak, and it puddles around her bare feet. She holds her arms at her bared sides and lifts her head. “Would you?” she asks.

Eyes blue as the sea travel her skin. Between the valley of her thighs to the soft hair of her sex. To her torso, stronger than the preference of many men. To her breasts, small and muscular. To her neck, long and pale. He ends at her eyes, bottom lip dragged under his teeth. “I would not,” he says.

Despite the long night, a warmth floods her belly. It is a feeling she has felt before for men who she once found worthy. And now, another still, whose eyes hold hers like they are precious jewels.

The warmth of the pool licks at her ankles. She takes her time in her descent. Steam slicks her legs as the water rises around her. The soreness of the long night twinges in reminder. Bruises along her side and the crust of a scabbed knee. Weariness makes her eyes heavy as the water embraces her waist.

She goes to him without hail. In front of him, she pauses. Stormbreaker looks up at her, a flush from the water on his cheeks. One is blemished a deeper purple, a few spots of bruising marking the arch of the bone. Brienne traces a dripping finger over them. His mouth tightens, but he offers no other complaint.

From the wall, he lifts a hand. Fingers graze her bruised side. She winces at his touch but does not push him away.

“Come,” he says.

“Is that all you want?” she asks. “A woman to warm your lap?”

Stormbreaker smiles. “I hear you’re now Ser Brienne. A knight by any measure that exists in this world of yours.”

“This world of ours,” Brienne corrects.

She watches him closely. His huffed laugh behind a wider smile. The glint in his eyes. Beyond the window, rain beats the dirt into a thirsty clay.

“In this world of ours,” Stormbreaker continues, “I serve under you, Ser Brienne. And you above me.”

His shoulders are strong under her hands, like the steel of the axe he wielded with such ease before her eyes. His thighs are thick beneath her, and she must unfurl her long legs to fit him. The stretch both warms and chills her. Goosebumps puff on the arms she folds around his shoulders.

She frees his hair from its tie. The strands slide through her fingers easy as his lips between her breasts. His exhale makes her shiver and her heart tap to a faster drum.

“Where in the world did you learn to fight as you do?” Brienne asks.

Stormbreaker laughs again, muted against her neck. “I didn’t,” he replies. “Gods, there’s so much of you.”

“So I’ve been told,” Brienne says. “Too much for most men.” She arches beneath the wet hands sliding up her back. Water cascades down her spine and soaks into her hair. Pressed close as she is, she feels his hardness swell, thick and hot, curved up towards her belly.

“Good thing I’m not most men,” Stormbreaker says.

Brienne huffs. “Even now, your self-importance is staggering.”

“Most men don’t deserve you,” Stormbreaker tells her. His voice sinks, a rumble like the purr of a mountain lion.

Beyond the window, thunder hums, a gentle stir under thick storm clouds.

“And you do, I suppose?” Steam rises to Brienne’s face. Her cheeks warm to a soft pink. She rocks her hips forward.

Stormbreaker gazes up at her. His eyes are staggering even through the fence of low lids. “I’ll leave that to your discretion,” he says.

His fingers sink back down her back, skinning every knot of her spine like skipping stones. His hand is large on her thigh and gentle easing her wider. Warmth floods her opened sex. Brienne sinks closer to him, his scent spilling into the pool’s heat.

“For god’s sake,” Brienne grumbles. When she kisses him, she finds a mouth soft and welcome for her plundering. He does not battle her as the few other men she has kissed have. Stormbreaker does not wilt, but he does not push. For her lips, he relaxes, hands on her hips. They sit so close, when she breathes she feels his chest against her skin.

A thumb skims between her thighs. Brienne hisses against his lips. The reaction earns her a second touch, a lazy circle through the water. Her whole body reacts, a shiver that cuts through the pool’s heat. Her breath catches against his mouth. She feels peeled back like a spring flower, pink and plump for his hand.

Brienne slides fingers around him in turn. She has not done this before.

Tentatively, she squeezes. His groan rumbles like thunder against her lips. “From base to tip,” he breathes against her. “Slowly.”

She does so, but not slowly. He grunts and bows his head to her neck. She repeats the motion. He repeats his, a circled coax of his thumb. Brienne gasps against his bruised cheek.

“Tell me your name,” Brienne says. “Your real name.”

“I’m no longer worthy of it,” he mumbles against her skin.

Brienne raises his head with fingers under his jaw. His beard scratches against her water-wrinkled fingers. “You serve under me now,” she says. “I’ll decide your worth.”

He holds her gaze as the water from her fingers slides down his neck. A minute passes before he answers. “Thor is my name.”

A mighty name. With it, the meaning behind his axe's title becomes clear.

Brienne kisses his name from his lips. “There is a saying I’ve heard." With care, she pushes herself up on her knees. “After the long winter comes the storms of spring.”

When lightning flashes from the window, she would swear it echoes in Thor's eyes. “I’ve heard this saying too,” he tells her.

With this, she decides.

It is slow and gentle at first. She seats herself upon him. Inch by inch, he fills her. It is a feeling she has not known, the sensation of being pierced by her own volition. He takes care with her, holds and guides her waist until she can settle herself. The pressure seems to blossom up into her belly. There is a give somehow, a softening, as he mumbles against her ear and suckles on her neck.

It is slow and gentle until it isn’t. When the floodgates give and she finds her fingers digging between his shoulders. He rakes a hand down her back, pink lines left in its wake. Her breasts are squeezed and bitten as she rides him. The water slaps between them. He sucks her neck enough to bruise. She pulls his hair until he’s forced to tip his head back. Then she kisses the breath from him, revels in the groan against her lips.

For a few moments, the horror of the long night leaves her. She is overcome, her body possessed and possessing. She gives and takes in equal measure. She commands and she obeys. Her breaths are short and her heartbeat heavy. Her skin blemishes under his hands. She treasures every bruise she leaves on him. His hips stutter towards her. She squeezes herself around him and drinks his moans like the sweetest wine.

When his hand slides down her belly, she shifts into him. Her thighs stretch wider, and she gasps for the thumb that presses into her. Pleasure shoots up her back. Her breath chokes off. Soreness swells under their kiss.

He rubs her again, and she cries out, her body bucking towards his touch. He fits snug inside her, and her clit throbs from his touch.

His free hand cups her neck. Holding her closer. Making it hard to breathe. He repeats the motion. Stars sting behind Brienne’s eyelids. She cries out again, or tries to, the sound swallowed by his lips. Her whole body shudders, the vibration curling her over from head to toe. She feels wet even with the pool’s wetness. Her limbs turn to liquid, and she melts against him. A finger of space separates their lips. His tongue darts out before a hitch of his breath. His body moves under her, and she pulls her knees tight.

A new warmth fills her, his thrust testing the stretch of her thighs. His lips brush her jaw. She tucks her face against his hair.

“Thor,” she says, tasting the name on her tongue. “Will you stay now that the battle is done?”

“Will you?” His voice eases against her shoulder.

“For now,” Brienne says. “My oath is sworn to the seven kingdoms. I will go where I must.”

Thor lifts his head. “That’s where I’ll be, then. To your end I follow. I promised you that.”

Brienne returns his gaze. After a long moment, she nods.

A mighty storm crashes beyond the window. If she didn’t know better, she would think it sings for her.


End file.
